No Need to Say Goodbye

Mrs Cowdrie put down her cup and saucer. ‘He’s quite something, isn’t he? I’ll be off, thanks for the tea.’ She looked round the office. ‘Is this where you spend your nights? I suppose you knit or read to pass the time?’

She was quite serious; Sister Payne said quietly, ‘I do have things to do…’ She telephoned for a taxi and escorted the lady to the hospital entrance, then turned her steps in the direction of the men’s medical ward, to start her round. The intensive care unit first… Mr Cowdrie had a good chance of recovery, she considered. She frowned; Mrs Cowdrie had taken his sudden illness very coolly—what wife worth her salt would worry about her lack of sleep at such a time, let alone go back home until her husband had been declared safely out of danger? She met Dr van der Linden at the door, on his way out, and he paused to speak to her. They had known each other for some time now, and maintained a pleasant, rather cool relationship, each respecting the other without showing interest. They might, on occasion, hold a brief conversation about the weather or some similar impersonal topic, and at the hospital ball he would dance with her once, something he was obliged to do in common courtesy, but for the most part their talk was strictly professional, concerning the patients.

‘Mr Cowdrie should do, Sister. I’ve left instructions with Staff Nurse. Let me know if you’re not happy with anything.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You will be handing over within another hour or so?’

He nodded unsmilingly, and walked rapidly away, doubtless to his bed, thought Louise enviously, and then reflected that, unlike her, he had a ward round in a few hours’ time, whereas, once the house was quiet, she would be able to sleep.

She was a little late going off duty, since she had to give a lengthy report to the day sister on intensive care. The March morning, although bright, was chilly; she paused at the entrance to shiver. The streets around the hospital were already teeming with traffic and the buses would be full.

The big door swung open behind her and Dr van der Linden came to a halt beside her. ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said pleasantly.

‘Kind of you, sir, but I can get a bus…’

‘Yes, I know.’ He touched her arm. ‘The car is over here.’

A Jaguar XJS, sleekly elegant and powerful. He ushered her into the front seat and got in beside her. ‘Fourteen, Bick Street, Hoxton, isn’t it?’

She wondered how he knew, but said nothing, only, ‘You must be going out of your way.’ And, when he didn’t reply, ‘This is very kind of you.’

Bick Street was almost in Islington; she supposed one would call it shabby genteel, with its facing rows of small villas, brick built and ugly and with mod cons which had been mod at the turn of the century. Dr van der Linden drew up soundlessly before number fourteen, and its front door was flung open to allow three people and a dog to emerge. A girl, small and fair and pretty, a schoolgirl, fair, too, but a good deal taller and not as pretty, though still worth a second glance, and a schoolboy with sandy hair and glasses on his nose. The dog stayed with him, behind the girls; it was a smooth-coated type with a plumy tail and very large pointed ears.

There were no gardens before the houses; they crossed the pavement and peered at Louise through the car windows. The doctor obligingly opened the window and said, ‘Good morning.’

Louise said, ‘My sisters, Zoë and Christine, and my brother, Michael, and Dusty.’

They chorused their how do you dos, and Dusty barked a brief greeting.

‘Dr van der Linden kindly gave me a lift.’ Louise spoke briefly, and made to get out. Dr van der Linden got out, too, and opened her door.

‘A pleasure, Sister Payne,’ he said formally, then got in again and drove away with a vague wave of the hand.

The little group went into the house. ‘I say, Louise, do you work for him? Aren’t you lucky?’ It was Zoë who spoke. ‘And I spend my days at that dreary old typing school.’

Louise was in the hall, taking off her coat. ‘Well, dear, it’s only for another week or two, then you can get a smashing job with a film producer or stockbroker or something.’ She followed the others into the kitchen. ‘I don’t work for him—he’s a consultant. I only see him if he comes in for something urgent.’

‘All the same, he drove you home…’

‘Well, we met at the door.’ Louise spoke absent-mindedly, turning over the few letters the postman had brought. ‘Chris—Mike, are you ready for school? Away with you, my dears—see you at teatime. Have a good day.’

Alone with Zoë, she sat down at the kitchen table. She was too tired to eat much, but Zoë made fresh toast and another pot of tea, and sat with her for a while until it was time for her to leave the house, too.

‘I’m back early this afternoon,’ she said as she got her coat, ‘so leave everything, Louise. You look as though you need a good sleep.’

Alone, Louise finished her toast, poured another cup of tea and opened her letters. Presently she would wash her dishes—the others had already done theirs—let Dusty out into the strip of garden behind the house, have a bath and go to bed. For two years now, ever since their mother’s death, when she had taken over the reins of the household, they had kept to a routine which on the whole worked very well. The three younger children kept the house tidy, made their beds and laid tables and washed up, and, on her nights off duty each week, she cleaned the little house, did the week’s shopping and saw to the washing and as much of the ironing as possible. It left little time for leisure, but at least they were together and had a home. There was no money, of course; just sufficient to live decently, and tucked away in the bank was the small capital her father had left, enough to send Mike to university when the time came.

They were lucky to have a home, however shabby, she reflected, unfolding the first of her letters.

It was typewritten, from their landlord, who had rented them the house when her father had had to go into hospital and her mother, knowing that his illness was terminal, had moved to London, lock, stock and barrel, not to mention her four children, so that they might be near him. When he had died they had stayed on because Louise was half-way through her training, and her mother, with some help from her, could just about manage to make ends meet. When her mother had died, two years previously, they had stayed on; Louise had a safe job, Zoë would soon be working and helping out with the housekeeping and the younger ones were doing well at school, although Louise wasn’t too happy about the schools. Sensibly, she didn’t allow herself to worry about the future. It was important to get the two younger ones through their exams; only then would she decide what was best to be done. It was obvious to her that, even if she met a man she would like to marry, he would jib at having to provide for her brother and sisters and, whereas while she had been training and her mother was still alive, she had never lacked for invitations from the housemen at the hospital, they had cooled off when they had discovered later that she now had responsibility for the upbringing of the family. She didn’t blame them, and if she repined she did it in private, turning a calm face to the world.

Unfolding the letter, she allowed herself speculation as to its contents. Another rise in the rent, she supposed; there had never been an agreement. Years ago, when they had first moved there, there had been what the landlord had called a ‘gentlemen’s agreement,’ and when on her mother’s death she had asked him about it, he had assured her that since this arrangement had been in force for some time there was no point in altering it. She had agreed with him, and hadn’t even had a rent book.

A great pity that she had agreed, she reflected, reading his letter. The house had been sold and the new owner would like to take possession as soon as possible, and since there was no written agreement and no lease to expire he would be glad if she could arrange to leave as soon as she had found suitable accommodation. The letter ended with a brief apology—the price he had been offered for the house was too advantageous to be ignored, and he regretted any inconvenience it might cause her.

She read the letter through again once more, slowly, in case she had missed something. She hadn’t—there it was in black and white. She got up, cleared the table, washed the china, set the table ready for their evening meal, let Dusty in from the garden and went upstairs to run the bath, all the while her tired brain doing its best to wrestle with the news. She could get advice, she supposed, but she was pretty sure that the landlord had the law on his side; it was quite true, there was no agreement as such, and for all she knew when her mother had rented the house she might have agreed verbally to leave if asked to do so. Bick Street hadn’t been much sought after; it was only in the last year or so that house prices had soared.

She got into bed and, because she was so very tired, fell asleep at once, to wake in the early afternoon and start worrying again. She had no intention of saying anything to the others, not until she had made quite sure that the landlord was within his rights and, if he was, and she was pretty sure that he was, she had done some house-hunting. She had strong doubts about being able to rent a house and, even if she could get a council flat, what would happen to Dusty?

She got up, made herself some tea and went into the tiny strip of garden with the dog. The daffodil bulbs were showing and there were late snowdrops in one corner and crocuses as well. She remembered the pleasant garden surrounding the house in the country where she had been born and brought up until her father’s illness, and she sighed, but she had common sense; thinking about the past wasn’t going to help the future. She went indoors and started to get the high tea they all shared, and when they were all sitting round the table, discussing the day, she joined in cheerfully and just as usual, making sure that the evening routine of dog-walking, homework and small household chores was in train before she took herself off to work.

It was a busy night with emergency intakes, unexpected crises on the wards and the intensive care unit full up. Mr Cowdrie had improved; Louise, going along to see him, met Dr van der Linden bent on the same errand.

He stopped abruptly, his massive proportions preventing her from sidling around him with a murmured, ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘No sleep?’ he enquired, and, at her surprised look, ‘No colour, puffy lids, shadowed eyes. Something worrying you?’

For a brief moment she toyed with the idea of flinging herself at him and pouring out her problem; he would be a good, patient listener, utterly impersonal and probably able to give her sound advice for that very reason, for he had no interest in her as a person, only as Night Sister. The next second she said in her calm way, ‘No, sir. I didn’t sleep as well as usual, that’s all.’

He nodded, stood aside for her to go in and followed her to the first of the patients, and presently Ted Giles joined them.

There were two more nights before she would be free with nights off, and she wisely decided to do nothing until she could occupy the whole of her mind with her personal worries. She went about her duties in her usual calm fashion and, although she slept badly, her excuse to her sisters and brother that she had a cold was accepted without suspicion.

She left the hospital later than usual after her last night of duty; Sister Berry, who would take over from her for three nights, had only recently been made a sister and, although a good nurse, needed a good deal of bolstering up. Louise took care that the staff nurses on duty with her were experienced but all the same she always wrote a rather more detailed report for her.

Dr van der Linden was coming in as she was going out. His ‘good morning’ was preoccupied, but he paused after he had passed her and retraced his steps. ‘Nights off? You look as though you need them.’

He had gone again before she could say anything; she made her way home, feeling plain and alarmingly desirous of bursting into tears.

In the afternoon, after she had had a nap and done the shopping, she went along to the two estate agents in the neighbourhood. Evidently neither of them had anything to offer her; indeed, they looked at her askance. No one rented a house these days, not when mortgages were so easy to get. There was one flat, two bedroomed, and excluding rates the rent was rather more than the sum she earned in a week. She went back home, prepared the evening meal and when they had all finished it, cleared the table and told them about the landlord’s letter. ‘I’m not sure what we can do,’ she finished matter-of-factly, ‘but since I pay the rent a month in advance and I’ve only just paid it, we have got more than three weeks…’

‘Haven’t we any relations?’ asked Mike.

‘Only Great-Aunt Letitia, but she washed her hands of Father when he married Mother. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’ Louise spoke with such certainty that their relief was evident.

There was not time to talk about it in the morning; she saw them off, washed up, took Dusty for a brisk walk round the dull streets and came back to find that the postman had been. Only one letter, and that sufficiently official-looking for her to hesitate before she opened it.

She slit the envelope deliberately; there could be no worse news than that which she had had from the landlord. It might even be better…

It was. The letter, brief and businesslike, sent from Ridgely, Ridgely, Smith and Ridgely, Solicitors, with an address in the city, informed her that Miss Letitia Payne, her father’s aunt, whom she could barely remember, had recently died and had left her house at Much Hadham and her estate, less an annuity to her housekeeper, to her eldest great-niece, Louise Payne. If Miss Payne would have the goodness to call at the above address, matters would be made clear to her.

Louise read the letter again, slowly this time, not quite believing it; she had never doubted that miracles did happen, but she hadn’t expected one to happen to her. She read the letter again and then, being a practical person, got her coat and her purse and went across the street to the corner shop where there was a telephone box.

In answer to her request to speak to Mr Ridgely, a vinegary voice asked which one.

‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters, if you could just say that it is Miss Louise Payne.’

From the dry-as-dust voice which came on the line, she supposed that she was speaking to the most senior of the Mr Ridgelys. It sounded a little shaky, but assured her that the contents of the letter were, in fact, true. ‘Solicitors, young lady, are not given to levity,’ said the voice peevishly.

‘So sorry,’ said Louise, ‘but it is a surprise. Shall I come and see you today?’